Rain soaked cloak
summer’s fallen joy –
browning in frost, fog,
and rain,
turning to humus in
promises of renewal.
A grant of shelter for
creeping things –
warmed by mother’s deep
fire within –
a sustaining sustenance
for life, recreation of hope –
we hunker down –
nesting – for a spring we
hope will arrive. So a
surety we never ask
‘But will it come?’

— Willie Oliver Wolfe